Archetypal Moving Misery

It is settling in slowly. That I am actually here and doing what I am doing after talking about it for at least 12 years, that I can be defined primarily as “struggling songwriter,” that the rest is up to me… it is settling in.

I got up today and did several things around the house. I learned from Ln and Sarah S. that staying organized has the potential to make things easier, so I’m doing my best. Hopefully the 7th time is the charm. After around the fifth load of clothes, I was making a snack when I heard a dripping noise. Though some may find comfort, or even pride, in that, depending on their domestic circumstances, I currently do not. It usually means one of the following things:

1. A liquor drink has been spilled and forgotten.
2. I have done a poor job of connecting the washing machine hoses to their appropriate mates (see the great Washing Machine Floods Brett’s House on His Third Day In Said House Caper of the Year 2000).
3. A dead body has been planted in my dwelling place before being appropriately drained. Side Note: If you are going to plant a dead body in my house, please do so with some sense of tidiness and selflessness: Drain the fluids first, then plant the body. Grazi.
4. Trina has chosen Chinese Water Torture over sleeplessness and wants some company (but didn’t bother to call, which is fine).
5. It’s raining.
6. The neighbor upstairs clogged her toilet, and still believed she could “handle this one” after the water had flooded half of her den.

Well, in this case, #6 applies. I fully expect to be compensated, preferably in the form of a homemade desert or a publishing deal. At this point, however, I have not been contacted regarding a settlement. I do believe that the Garden State Soundtrack will have to play loudly at, say, 4:15 AM. Maybe that will teach her to lay off of the fiber.

In my progressing age, I have recalled that everything goes wrong when I move and become uncomfortable. This usually waits to occur until I am completely alone. Then it roars. When I moved to Michelle Drive, I arrived alone on move-in to find my bedroom window busted by attempted burglars and made unsuccessful phone calls to attorneys in an attempt to get out of the lease. When I moved into the ‘kstone, the aforementioned caper happened, then I struggled mightily to get everything into the house, then the filing cabinet stayed in the front bathroom for six weeks. Here, you’ve got the Great Feces Shower of 2005. Along with that, evvv-uuuu-rrrr-yyy damned time I bent my head toward the coffee maker to check my “grounds level” or make a strategic ergonomic change in coffee maker positioning, I promptly jammed my forehead into the corner of the stove hood in exactly the wrong spot and with authority. Five times!!! This is a known complication of moving with the idiosyncrasies and accident-proneness that I am well known to possess. It is also directly related to being in a really pissy mood. I will get through it, but now would not be the time to ask me to help you move or assist with your do-it-yourself enema. I’m probably not game.

After touching base with a few people in town, I made my way to the BlueB|rd Café. From now on, I will refer to this establishment as “the Bird,” for Googlic reasons. Regarding the night, I will attempt to be vague and not overly opinionated… let’s just say that 0pen Mic Night at the Bird completely sucks ass. Merle H@gg@rd appeared twice, yet was never there. I also heard Yoko Ono in the shape of a 57-year old man who closed his eyes and acted like he was blind every time someone approached an acceptable level of mediocrity. When he sang high notes it sounded like Darth Brooks. Two kids under the age of 14 performed, and frankly much better than most did. I plan to attempt to circumvent this part of getting into the business, to fail, and then to blog more about how pissed I am that I have to listen to this.

But there was a moment or two today when I realized that it has finally happened. I was driving up 65, and noticed that I didn’t feel like I should be anywhere else. I made the turns like I knew them. I listened to the local traffic, like someone interested in local traffic. I realized that I had no place that I had to be, and that I was free to do this… slowly, quietly, and under the radar – the only way I know how to do anything.

I am still a little scared and progressively a little more comfortable. I get a little excited every time I find another empty picture frame, but then I get a little lump in my throat every time I find the picture that will fill it. And occasionally, the lump gives way.

I miss my friends. I miss feeling like I’m at home. You don’t have to comment anymore saying you’re with me, because I know you are. It simply is. It sucks. And it will get better. There was never any other way. If there was I would have taken it.

On the other hand, I remember this feeling precisely. It was 1992. I was sitting in a dorm room on Lumpkin pissed because I was at a university that I didn’t want to attend, separated from my family, and only knowing three people in my new home. I was sure, just positive, that if I stuck it out that I could be a part of it, and hopefully I could be good enough at it to be drum major some day. But one thing after the other went wrong… profoundly wrong. That seemed to have worked out ok, and I don’t have any reason to believe that this will be any different.

If you’ve ever heard me describe myself frankly, you know that the Dwight-esque party line is “Horrible initiative and tremendous endurance.” Here’s where part two kicks in… along with a little bit of belief and a whole lot of patience.

Peace.